


Bell, Book, and Candle

by ljs



Series: Investigations and Acquisitions [11]
Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: Established Relationship, F/M, Gen, Magic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-16
Updated: 2014-03-16
Packaged: 2018-01-16 00:32:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,867
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1325050
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ljs/pseuds/ljs
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set in the Investigations and Acquisitions universe, which goes AU after Season 7 "Showtime"; this is set ten years later, in a world where Giles and Anya (married, with a son) live in London and run their own occult-services agency.</p><p>Giles and Anya have a case at an ostensibly haunted country house. It's surprising what bad things might come from the past.</p><p>(Written in 2006.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

"I don’t want to talk about it any more," Anya said, and she pointedly turned her head away from Giles and looked out the passenger window.

"But, darling... right then. No talking." Giles pressed his lips together, flicked up the volume on the CD he’d chosen – driver’s choice, _Diamond Dogs_ -era Bowie, even though Anya hated that – and turned his attention to negotiating his way out of the Siviter country estate and on to their ghost-hunting job.

The Saab crunched over the gravel and frost of Siviter’s drive, aggression suited to Giles’ annoyance.

_He_ didn’t want a reporter watching them work, did he? Hadn’t he made it clear that, despite Anya’s irritating arguments about marketing and the proper kind of name recognition, he didn’t want Investigations and Acquisitions anywhere near a bloody snobbish glossy like _Country Life_? More, anywhere near a sodding bloody snobbish glossy like _Country Life_ and a sodding bloody ridiculous cover story on haunted country homes? Hadn’t he told her, over and over, and then she went off anyway and made the arrangements through Jools? For fuck’s sake, she didn’t even _like_ Jools, except apparently when she was making deals behind Giles’ back.

More than that, it wasn’t even likely to be an interesting ghost, he thought venomously. Judging by the materials he’d found on the family’s phenomenon, it was a bog-standard Wilton ancestor wavering in and out of the library, leaving the occasional ectoplasmic trail. If that were true, then this posh reporter would be assessing only Giles’ buttering-up-the-client skills, which he freely admitted weren’t always his forte, and perhaps writing down Randolph Mortimer’s name when Giles noted that Investigations and Acquisitions contracted out the bigger psychic-phenomena cleansing jobs –

"Please stop grinding your teeth. You don’t have a scheduled dentist appointment until next month, and you know how you get when your jaw locks up," Anya said.

It was only by force of keen moral resolve that he kept himself from retorting ‘I can grind my teeth if I want, Anya.’ Or rather, only by force of keen moral resolve, and the unsettling realisation that he’d sound exactly like nine-year-old David in a rare petulant mood. His son had a far nicer disposition than he did, he thought. Must have got it from her...

He tapped on the steering wheel and said, "Do you have the map? Where am I supposed to turn?"

Of course she had the Oxfordshire map ready to hand, she made a bloody fetish out of being prepared. She flipped it open and peered at it. "Next road, take a right. These Wilton people are the Siviter family’s neighbours, you know. Practically next door."

"Thank you," he said as sarcastically as he could (for no real reason), and put on speed. He could see the turn-off not that far ahead, actually.

Bare branches arched over the road, making lacy ribbons of shadows as they passed, which reminded him of the night he and Anya had found each other back in California all those years ago. Bowie was singing "Rebel Rebel," too, one of Giles’ favourites. He sighed, flexed his fingers, let some of the irritation go–

Until she said, "Has Andrew talked to you yet?"

Fingers tightened on the wheel again. "We exchanged remarks about the coffee situation and David’s footy game this morning at breakfast. What, has there been another delay in the renovation of his flat? Will he be living upstairs for the foreseeable future?"

"Well, maybe. But that’s not what he wants to talk... Oh, never mind."

"Anya, you never say ‘never mind.’"

"I just did."

"Which means that the bloody world’s ending."

"No. No apocalypse. Never mind." She wasn’t even fighting back, not really, which made him worry.

He glanced over to see her facing forward now, wrapped up in herself, teeth nibbling that lovely lower lip. Repressing a surge of desire – they’d been together over a decade, it was sodding ridiculous the way she still could arouse him with the smallest of looks or gestures – " _What_ , darling?"

She huddled deeper into herself. "It’s just that this is the first day off we’ve had in four months, except of course we’re still working the half-day because the agency’s so busy in addition to that stupid vampire terror-cell we’ve been watching, like their blood-letting’s not enough badness without adding political insurrection, and – Hey, turn here."

He blinked, then spun the wheel hard so as not to miss the turn. Their road stretched empty before them, however, and he knew it’d be a mile or two before the Greenoaks drive. Once adjusted, he said, "Yes, we’ve been busy. But we’d have _this_ whole bloody day off if you hadn’t arranged this consultation."

"You spent the late morning playing billiards with Jools, Rupert, while Elinor condescended to me over tea and biscuits until it was time for lunch. That’s not exactly an all-day work thing."

"Anya... Anya, I’m sorry."

"No, you’re really not. But it’s fine. Honey, you’ve been working much too hard lately. I don’t begrudge you time with your incredibly annoying best friend." She bit her lip again. "It’s just – damn, I can’t think of a way to soften this up for you. Andrew wants to buy into Investigations and Acquisitions. Third partner, third person to help do the work, except he doesn’t get to change the firm’s name. Still ours, Rupert, still Giles and Jenkins. Just, more time."

Bare branches, lower now, almost low enough to scrape the roof of the car. He noted this so that he didn’t start to grind his teeth again, even though he didn’t know why her perfectly rational suggestion made his vision go dark crimson around the edges. He breathed in and out. Then: "Why does Andrew want to leave the Council?"

"Because he lost Dena, that little Slayer of his, two weeks ago. You know, in the Fyarl uprising in Santiago. Not a good day."

Sympathy – God, yes, such familiar sorrow, streaming back from the past – replaced anger. "Oh, right, we sent flowers. Well... loss makes some people reassess, I suppose. But surely it’s too soon to make such a drastic life-change?"

She turned toward him, eager and lithe and energetic as usual. "He’s been thinking about it for a while, honey! He’s not happy with all the politicking in the Council, and he hates spending so much time in Cleveland, and... he misses Dawn and David and us, and we’re all here. Plus he’s really, really good at all things acquiring and lots of things investigatory. He’d be an asset to the firm."

Anger washed back over the sorrow. Giles didn’t know why, he hated the feeling, it made no bloody sense. She was right, of course. He’d grown to enjoy Andrew over the years, and the man was quite competent, if still pop-culture-obsessed and...Andrew-ish. More, twelve-hour days had been the norm the past several months, piles of work even on the weekends, little time with David or her outside the grind in Gilbert Place – he could just about manage it, except that he was letting too much important to him slide. Still, cool and bitten-off: "I can handle the workload without help, darling. We don’t need to hire someone else."

Her enthusiasm flickered out as fast as it had appeared. "Sure. Okay. It’s not _hiring_ , but... I’ll just let him talk to you about it."

"Anya–"

"Turn here," she said. When she brushed her hand against the window, her wedding band clicked on the glass.

Branches overhead gave way to an open ironwork gate, then autumn sunlight, then the span of a stone bridge over the end of a small ornamental lake. Giles could hear the slap of water as they passed over the bridge – wind was ruffling the surface, sending waves against stone.

Greenoaks spread out on the other side of the water. A fine example of Queen Anne architecture, its neoclassical lines softened by age and two three-hundred-year-old oaks on either side, the house gleamed in the weak sun. So did the BMW parked in the forecourt – the one, he saw, with a Press whatsit tucked under the windshield wiper.

"That must be Constance Wright’s car," Anya said. Then, in a rush, "Even though you don’t like the idea of the magazine story and you’re mad at me, and even though you’re not going to let Andrew in and so we won’t be able to handle more business anyway, will you still be nice to her?"

He parked the car next the BMW – red, he noticed, with a slight pang – and then turned off the ignition with a snap of the wrist. "I’m always nice."

This ordinarily would be her cue to splutter out a list of the many times he wasn’t, but she said only, "Okay," and reached down to collect her handbag.

"Darling," he said, although he didn’t know what he meant. Just... he was terribly tired, and he knew he wasn’t behaving very well, and... "Come here." Even as he said it, he caught her face in his hands and brought her closer to him.

Or he tried to. A bit of a struggle, safety devices in the way holding her back, until she clicked herself free of her seatbelt. "I’m sorry," she said, and then reached up to kiss him first.

There was something wrong, but she was kissing him, and thought went away. She still had a faint taste of the winter salad Elinor had served, nutty and crisp and just a little garlicky, and she was soft and yielding, and so very sweet. He let himself press into the kiss, taking control, and as always she let him. But he couldn’t go too far – "Sodding seatbelt," he mumbled, and got a hand down to click himself free too.

She turned her face into his shoulder. "You always do have trouble with those, honey," emerged in a breathless, muffled laugh.

He remembered with an inner smile their first time and that bloody painful seatbelt, but he forced a frown and said sternly, "You’ll have to be punished for laughing at me, Mrs Giles."

She stopped at once – not a good sign; any mention of their bedroom games usually made her wriggle in an adorably arousing fashion – and turned her face deeper into his shoulder. He said her name once, and then she pushed herself away. She was smiling, but it was her Investigations and Acquisitions work-smile, not the private beam he treasured, and were those dark circles under her eyes, ill-hidden by cosmetics? "Of course I will," she said, and then grabbed her handbag.

"Hang on. What is it?" he said, but then the double doors of Greenoaks opened with a creak loud enough to penetrate the Saab.

Three people stepped just outside under the small portico – Gerald Wilton and his wife Christine, whom he and Anya had met at a couple of the Siviters’ summer parties, and a young, irritatingly county woman, all teeth and pearls, whom he assumed was this Constance Wright. Gerald waved at them, saying something Giles couldn’t hear.

"Remember, be nice to the money as well as the journalist," Anya said before opening the door and calling a professional "Hello!" as she stepped out.

Giles sighed, then reached back to collect the ghost-hunting kit.

A cold wind off the lake struck at his neck when he got out of the car. It was bitter here, perhaps a matter of microclimate. The old oak trees on either side of the house hissed, all shadows and rustle, even in autumn sunlight. For a moment, the cool clean lines of house and columns shimmered, ghostly rather than solid, gold into white, past image instead of present reality –

Then Anya caught his free hand, and pulled him out of a most disquieting sensation of barely concealed vileness. _By the pricking of my thumbs, something wicked this way comes_ , he thought – which wasn’t just the Scottish play, of course, but also a Tommy and Tuppence novel.

He interlaced his fingers with hers, holding on more tightly to her warmth.

Gerald Wilton – something big in the City, Giles remembered, but now retired – advanced down the steps. "Hello, Gileses!" he said in an over-hearty way. "Glad you two could come look at our little haunt!"

"Now, Gerry," Christine said quellingly. She’d been an actress at one time, as rumour had it, but played lady of the manor full-time now. A touch of the Hyacinth Bucket, perhaps, but he shouldn’t judge others’ choice of roles. "Rupert, Anya, welcome. We hope that your visit is worth your while."

Anya smiled. "An initial consult isn’t much of a commitment, Christine, and besides, what a gorgeous house!" She turned her work-smile on the reporter. "You’ll be able to do a lot with this even if we don’t find a specially interesting ghost, right?"

"I should think so," Constance Wright said. Whinnied, more like. "Ghosts of the Cotswolds, yes?"

Repressing a grimace, Giles urged Anya up the steps and said, "Yes, and, er, hullo. And, well, I’d say it’s good not to have your hopes too high. The materials you sent on the first Gerald Wilton were rather... standard. Builder of the house in 1704, so fond of it he’s stayed around–"

Wind, cold and hard, and the now hidden oak trees hissed louder, branches knocking against each other, against moving stone –

Giles blinked. "Er, what was I saying?"

But the present Gerald Wilton and his wife gazed at each other. In a familiar wifely tone, Christine said, "Did you not tell them?"

"Tell us what?" Anya said, her saleswoman gleam diminished by what Giles considered quite rational wariness.

"It’s not exactly ancestor Gerald Wilton any more. Who’s popping up round the house, I mean." Gerald coughed, then put his other hand rather too firmly at Giles’ back and pushed hard, harder than the punch of wind off the lake, harder than branches cracking against stone.

One stumbling step, and Giles and Anya pulled each other across the threshold into a dim marble hall, cold and silent as any tomb, filled with loss and malice.

_By the pricking of my thumbs..._

The oak doors slammed shut behind them.

Giles blinked again, and the entryway shimmered back into a quite ordinary, albeit over-decorated, space, centred by a curve of staircase. "Yes. Right," he said, trying for balance. "Who or what is now haunting you?"

"You’ll tell us, we hope," Gerald said. "Library suit you, getting straight to work and what all, or would you require refreshments first?"

Christine, however, said, "Wait, Gerry, wait. Giles, Anya, do we need to have someone fetch your equipment? We’ve seen some of the television ghost-hunting programmes, and those people are always equipped with sensors and various high-tech gadgets..."

Anya glanced at him. It was his responsibility to explain in general terms that they used magic, not technology, for this kind of work – or at least suggest that he and Anya investigate alone first. "Thank you, but we’ve got what we need for this initial visit," he began.

And Constance Wright whinnied again, a sound of honest amusement. "I say, Wiltons, haven’t you any idea who you’ve consulted?" More teeth, this time directed at Giles and Anya. "I’ve spent a deal of time in Devon, Mr and Mrs Giles. A _great_ deal. And I’ve seen a lot of things in my time there. A fine animal like Baron, for instance."

Anya said, "Huh. You’ve met Rupert’s horse?" Which was a skilful way of confirming this woman’s suggestion that she’d recently spent time at Tor House, where he stabled Baron, and she therefore was at least aware of the myriad mosaic possibilities of the world.

"Oh yes, yes yes," Constance Wright said. She suddenly looked far less county, as if a mask had dropped to show the clever woman underneath. Smile was still too wide for his taste, however. "And I was favourably impressed. I know why Gillian wanted me to see him."

"Okay," Anya said brightly, her hand tight on his. "So you know the kinds of things to write about, and what not to? Trade secrets, I mean?"

Christine broke in again. "This is all very intriguing, of course."

"But let’s go on up and see the library," Gerald said. "Since we’re all friends now, right, technology or not?"

"Right." Giles needed to shift his bag. As he reluctantly let go of Anya’s hand: "Lead the way. And, er, what manifestations have occurred lately?"

Gerald and Christine joined hands – picking up what had been dropped, Giles thought with a jolt – and led the way. Over their shoulders, they began a confused overlapping discussion of the first Gerald Wilton and his service to the Crown, first to William and Mary and then to Anne herself, at whose behest the family had been given Greenoaks. After his death in a hunting accident, he’d lingered in the library, a pleasant enough spirit–

"Yes, this is nice and quaint, just like the ghosts at Denver in Dorothy Sayers’ _Busman’s Honeymoon_ ," Anya said, interrupting an especially irrelevant detail about that first Wilton’s service under John Churchill in the wars. "But we read all this in the material you sent us, as well as the extra material Rupert found. What are we looking for _now_?"

Constance Wright’s footsteps behind them, surprisingly heavy, resounded in the sudden silence.

One more step up, and they all reached the first floor. Footsteps died here, lost in the thick crimson carpet of its hallway, carried away by the branches visible through the window at the far end. It was all blood here, cold from those who had gone, a space of malice and loss, and it tasted of iron and rebellion–

Anya caught his hand again, pulled him out of horror as she always did. "Bad vibes," she whispered to him, shakier than he liked. When he held on to her more tightly, she swallowed and said, "Okay, Wiltons, what’s the deal?"

"We don’t know," Gerald said. "It started a few days ago."

"What started?" Giles asked, when silence had stretched out again for a moment. He was bloody tired of the evasions, didn’t like the smell of this – "You contacted us last week. Was this before or after the emanations changed, and as my wife has asked repeatedly, _what is the situation at present_?"

More silence from the Wiltons, but Constance Wright began to dig in her handbag, murmuring, "Ah yes, I did think so..."

Christine said, "Yes, well, it happened before then. More interesting for the article this way, we thought."

"But less helpful for Investigations and Acquisitions. We asked for complete information," Giles’s hold on his temper was slipping. "Which you still haven’t given."

Gerald moved toward another set of double doors, more heavy oak, set into the wall. Over his shoulder he said, "Right, yes. It started when a portrait in the library fell, and the glass cracked..."

He threw open the doors. From inside came a gust of cold, cold wind, like a winter blast over foul water, and from outside came the scratching of trees against stone.

..........................................................

The Greenoaks library gave Anya the shivers the moment she and Rupert walked in, and those shivers kept getting worse.

Investigations and Acquisitions had done plenty of ghost-hunting in the past decade: old houses, new houses, tragedies that intertwined vengeance and history, or sad stories that happened just because. Rupert had developed a system of his own for any first visit, a ritual of both protection and invitation, and she usually felt more than prepared for any emanation, any chill, any cries from the past.

This place, though – although it was painted a happy yellow-gold to best catch the last of the winter sunshine, with two walls of books old and rare enough to make Rupert’s eyes light up, and some rare weapons mounted on the wall, and some very nice leather chairs that she ordinarily would like, the room smelled of the tomb and general badness. The gold drapes, pushed aside by Christine Wilton when they’d walked in, seemed to be streaked with something dark, like dried blood, like graveyard dirt.

And through the windows the oak trees seemed to be leaning in, bare branches reaching like fingers, no, sharp like dagger upon dagger upon dagger, coming too fast to stop –

She blinked. This reaction wasn’t like her. _Rupert_ was the sensitive one in the family, while she was just stupidly literal old Anya. But she knew all too well what evil felt like, and this was it.

She blinked again, this time suppressing an involuntary and idiotic rush of tears. Must be because she was tired. It had been a bad four months of drowning in work, and trying to keep the house going, and taking care of David (who was still coughing from that last bad cold, which had hung on too long but he wouldn’t rest enough, just like his father) and watching Rupert get stressed and snappish (which made her worry about his blood pressure, always a concern anyway). She was supposed to fix things, it was her job, but nothing was fixed, and... she was just so very tired.

Summoning strength from her reserves, she put on a smile and moved forward to Rupert, who had bent his head to inspect the back of the portrait, which was now propped awkwardly against the wall. He was asking about the person in the portrait; they hadn’t seen the face yet, the Wiltons had turned the picture back to front for some reason. Weird that an oil painting was encased in glass, weirder that it was on the back too. And a crack in the frame was noticeable all the way over here.

She put a hand to Rupert’s back – so warm and solid, she needed him to be okay even if she wasn’t – and looked closer herself at the fallen object. "Excuse me," she said, "is this frame new?"

"Yes." The answer came from Christine Wilton, who’d parked herself with this Constance Wright person over by the window. Anya was getting a weird connection there, one beyond story-subject and reporter, although she didn’t think it was bad. "When I redecorated the library a fortnight ago, I chose new frames to match the walls and woodwork."

Constance Wright pretended to make a note, which was odd, and then said, " I shouldn’t have done that, Christine. That does bring down the value, for one thing. The original is always better, even if one has to do some small repairs."

"Is it?" Christine said. "How interesting. I’m more interested in aesthetics than authenticity, however."

As Anya tried to make sense of that, Rupert touched her arm. "Darling," he said, "we should crosscheck the Wilton family history, since they aren’t positive about who’s represented in the portrait."

She heard the suspicion he wasn’t quite hiding. Why wouldn’t the Wiltons know who the portraits were, if they were the kind of people who called _Country Life_ for publicity? She’d bet her latest bulk-sale to Nalph that they knew exactly who this was. Still, they were paying a good fee for courtesy. "Right, honey. Gerald, could we please look at the book? You’d only sent us photocopies of the pages about the original Gerald, and Rupert researched more general Oxfordshire histories before we came."

"I’ll get it," Christine said, and she went to a nearby bookcase. Constance Wright trailed a few steps after her.

Surreptitiously Anya rubbed at her forehead. The light was changing outside, or maybe that was just the dagger-branches getting closer, God, she was tired–

"Perhaps I should turn the portrait round so you both can see it?" Gerald said, and he flipped it over before anyone could stop him.

Cold. Cold nasty wind, straight from the tomb, and the dagger-branches were coming, like Bringers from a hole in the earth, like Bringers down a high school hallway. But this time was both less and more than First Evil. This was human darkness.

From somewhere in the house – the entryway, maybe? – came the snap of a rope, came a pull on the wooden beam and a heavy body dangling, kicking at stone even though it was dead dead dead.

"Out," Rupert said. He was moving already, getting the book out of Christine Wilton’s hand, pushing the women toward Gerald and then all three of them toward the door.

Daggers in the eyes, another snap of the rope, and dead feet kicking almost like a dance –

Anya blinked herself back to competence. Protective circle first: she stumbled her way to their ghost-hunting kit and got out the requisite vial.

Constance Wright said in a strangely cheerful, horsey way, "I’ll set up a safe little boundary for these lovelies, shall I, Gileses?" and pulled the Wiltons out the library doors herself.

Rupert slammed home the doors. "Ready, darling?"

"Yes. Get over here."

He was there almost before she finished. His big warm hand caught hers, the one with the vial, and as they’d done so many times before, they moved together to pour the potion onto the floor, circling as they did, spinning themselves a safe place out of the cold. The branches were still there, though, and the sounds of a dead man dancing on a rope.

In a detached way she noticed that they’d just burnt a protective circle onto a Robert Adam-designed Axminster. They’d probably have to comp the I&A fee for the damage – except of course that these Wiltons hadn’t told them what the hell they were dealing with, had they, so it wasn’t her and Rupert’s fault –

"Bloody hell," Rupert whispered, at which point Anya finally looked at the portrait.

It was of a man, probably early eighteenth-century, probably a contemporary of the first Gerald Wilton. He had a long, off-centre wig, a thin Roman nose, a crooked and unwholesome smile, and eyes that seemed to follow any movement (Anya had always hated pictures like that; they were in her opinion unnecessarily uncanny). He might have been handsome, except that he just looked... mean.

What had no doubt caused Rupert’s vocal discomfort, however, were the following not good things: a stamp across the oil-painted neck, looked like a rope or something, inscribed _Anathema_ ; a dagger held to the painted man’s lips, from which blade dripped something very like fresh blood; that blood escaping the portrait through a long, serrated crack in the glass. More stuff to stain the Axminster, she thought.

Also, the painted man’s lips appeared to be moving. She could almost hear him talking. Her fault, he was saying.

"Okay, what kind of crazy people would hang a picture like that in their library?" she said, in an attempt to be normal.

Rupert had already started flipping through the family history, which he’d cleverly brought with him into their charmed circle. She looked down – yep, the ghost-hunting kit had made it in too. She didn’t remember putting it there, though. So weary, so graveyard cold...

She put her hand on Rupert’s back again. She felt more real that way.

He stopped on an early page, then adjusted his glasses. "Well, I rather think the more unpleasant features may be new. See here." He displayed a rather bad print of the same portrait. Wig, nose, smile, creepy eyes: check. Signs of excommunication, dagger, blood: not check. "This is apparently, er, Gerald Wilton’s younger brother John. Not much here... usual code phrases about a black sheep, political unrest and unwise religious choices; must have been a Catholic in a Protestant family, possibly still a Stuart supporter. Right... also, ‘died untimely... buried outside the churchyard on Wilton ground.’ Suicide, then."

"My question stands."

He gave her one of his best smiles – she didn’t know why it made her feel sick and guilty. Maybe it was the soft whispers coming from that painted mouth. But Rupert was closer and louder: "We can debate art appreciation later, darling. I’d say we need to send the spirit back into the portrait now."

She looked back at it. The painted eyes flickered, the smile was more crooked, the voice was almost loud enough... Swallowing fresh tears, she said, "But the glass is cracked. How can we seal him in? And who would have let him _out_?"

The voice from the painted man was audible now. _I’m here for you, Mistress, to share what I know. Not vengeance if you kill yourself. It’s justice. Justice, to set them free from your filth. Your fault._

Anya didn’t know whether to hold onto Rupert or let him go. The words were as bloody and dagger-sharp as the portrait, as the branches reaching toward the window, and they cut into her even inside the circle.

Rupert didn’t seem to hear them, though, for which she was oddly grateful. He bent down and started digging in the bag, mumbling to himself, although he took a second to say, "Not to worry. The re-framing was a bloody stupid idea of Christine’s, and no doubt enough of a jolt to wake whatever vile thing was sleeping. We can deal with it."

The painted man winked at her. _Deal indeed. No rest for the wicked, right? Just like I did, you still owe a death._

She put her hand to her mouth. Sometimes she still thought about D’Hoffryn’s bait-and-switch and poor Halfrek, tried to make a good wish for her lost friend even though that time was long gone. Sometimes she thought about what she’d been told years ago by the spirit of crazy Wesley’s dead girlfriend – that she had escaped her hell-contract. But had she? Was she putting Rupert and David in danger just by being here?

God, she was so cold, so tired. Tired of fighting everything.

Her foot slid closer to the edge of the protective circle. The carpet was red there, red even before the good magic touched it. Good magic didn’t change anything, maybe.

"There we are," Rupert said, before standing back up with a creak and a muttered curse, and with something hidden in his palm. She looked at him, so handsome, so good. Had he been enough to change her? She’d tried so hard. She was so, so tired. She’d fixed nothing, although it was her job.

_The rope’s not for you, Mistress,_ the painted man said. _For you, the blade._ The portrait winked again, and a line of red appeared under the rope, under the word that marked him as separate. Kind of like a demon, really. Maybe even an ex-demon. _Your fault your fault your fault._

"Anya? Darling?"

She looked at Rupert, who seemed concerned. Why? Was he worried about her tainting him? He was so good, and he did love her, but maybe this was why he’d been so cranky lately. Maybe this was what she was supposed to do, to make everything right.

_Right. That’s right. Come to the knife._

The dagger-branches tapped on the window, and the graveyard wind called. _Not that the graveyard’s proper for the likes of us, Mistress. We’ll sleep elsewhere._

"Anya, pay attention. We need to work a version of our banishing spell, send him back to where he belongs." Rupert sounded really cross now. She needed to fix that.

She touched him one last time. He was warm, and good, and real, and not for the likes of her. Trying not to cry – it was too late for that – she said, "I love you so much, Rupert. You and David. This death is for you."

Then she stepped out of the protective barrier, and into the cold. The sun had gone away somewhere.

The dagger in the portrait had got out, however. There it hung on the wall, waiting for her.


	2. Chapter 2

Oh God– Giles lunged for Anya, already almost out of reach.

But even as she put her hand out to the dagger, he caught her arm and pulled her back.

Those clear brown eyes he loved were clouded, and her voice had sounded so faded when she’d said... no, he couldn’t bear to think of it. The bad magics surrounded them, a constant rustle like leaves in a killing wind, but he didn’t know how the fuck the malevolence had touched her, didn’t know where he’d made the mistake.

Didn’t matter. He brought her into his arms, away from all weapons and all harm, and held on. "Anya, no."

"I’m so tired," she murmured through tears, trying to fight him, all hands and elbows and slipperiness and sobs. "Time to save you and David from me. Let me slip away..."

She would not slip away from him, not ever. He held on tighter and put his mouth to her hair.

From the portrait, from the window, from God knew where, came that constant drift of evil. Giles almost could make out words. _It’s your fault your fault your fault._

He made himself think. He could just about manage the banishing spell on his own, if he could get her to a safe space –

Constance Wright. She’d said something about protection.

Awkward, terrified, he wrestled Anya toward the doors. She wasn’t an easy armful – Christ, when was his impossible wife _ever_ easy, he thought with a flash of bitter-dark humour – but he managed. They moved through frost-touched wind, through those looming branches outside almost breaking the glass barrier, through vile whispers and a strange dripping sound. The very carpet seemed to ripple under their feet, trying to pull them down into the stains and the blood. Only their good magic kept them steady.

The very doors seemed to fight him, as hard as Anya. She murmured again, "I’m sorry, I’m so tired, it’s my fault," and almost slid out of his grasp, slick as ice.

"No," he said, and caught her again, tighter, closer. "Don’t you dare, Anya, don’t you _dare_ \--" Then, finally, the knob twisted in his hand, and the door was open, and he pushed her into Constance Wright’s waiting arms. "Please, hold on, don’t let her hurt herself."

"I understand, Giles," Miss Wright said. "I’ll keep her til you send it away."

When she wrapped her arms around Anya, he saw a crystal flash in her hand. It was familiar – one blessed by Michael at Tor House, he thought.

Which led to another thought – "Crystal might work," he said to himself. "Is John Wilton ghost or demon?"

"What does the portrait say, Giles? Better look," Constance Wright said, and then pushed him back inside.

He pulled the door shut himself, but too late to save Anya from tears.

Darker now in the library: the sun must be going down outside. Still, Giles could see the painted John Wilton smiling a crooked smile, and then the representation of old evil kissed the dagger, tongued off a bit of blood. The cracked glass barrier shivered. As small shards of glass fell, the chilly voice spoke. _It’s your fault it’s your fault it’s your fault._ Then, _I stole her from you, fool. Took your light._

Ignoring the whisper, ignoring his own incipient failure, Giles surveyed the portrait again. Ghost or demon... although the reference to light might reference excommunication, the painted man also wore a strangely worked pin, a wink of green on his painted robe. The sigil looked familiar somehow....

The mark of Agathon. Not the Greek dramatist, of course, but a lesser devil in the service of Mephistophilis, the Light-Taker. The old cautionary tales of Faust just about had it right. John Wilton must have sold his soul before excommunication and suicide, and the thing who’d bought the soul had been caught by mischance in the object, which meant – "Demon, not ghost," Giles said aloud.

When the painted man laughed, the windows shook, the oak branches came closer to stealing in. Giles could smell the graveyard again. But the whisper from that oil-paint mouth was louder, clearer. _You used to raise demons, once upon a time. Want to raise this one? I’ll give you back your wife, Master. It’s the only way you might get her back._

But Giles had already knelt by the open bag – so well-stocked by Anya, no, he couldn’t think of that – and retrieved both crystal and candle. When he touched the tools of light, the malevolent whispers burst into scream: negations, curses, one last summons of the devil’s help.

Somewhere in the world the last of the daylight died, and the library fell into dark as deep as any grave.

With an effort Giles kept his hands steady, and whispered his own summons. The candle leapt into life.

_No, no, no, no light._ When the painted man hissed, a line of dark uncurled through the crack in the glass, and whipped toward the flame.

And then a oak branch snapped, gunshot-loud, and crashed through the nearest window. Wind from outside, wind from hell, all reaching for the fire–

"Not this time," Giles whispered, curving the hand with the crystal around the flame to protect it. He felt the battering attack, outside, inside, and yet he concentrated, he moved, he kept it going.

He had worked so hard on his magic these past few years, ever since the Catcher’s Black Dog and Edward Camp had threatened his home. Despite age, and weariness, and that horrible voice repeating _your fault your fault your fault_ , he would keep the sodding fire alight for her.

The crystal in his hand began to glow.

The battering winds, inside, outside, began to scream, and from somewhere deep in the house came the sound of feet kicking stone, a drumbeat of negation, of curse. _No, your fault, no, your fault, no no no–_

Awkward, already sore, Giles got to his feet -- the flame still burned, the crystal glowed brighter. The wind rose, eating away at him, but he paid it no mind. He made his way to the portrait, then bent over and placed the crystal against the worst part of the cracked glass. "Hie thee hence, and harm no more."

_No no no NO._

"Hie thee hence, and harm no more," he said again, and he sent the crystal travelling over the crack. Wherever it passed, the glass began to hiss – a good sound this time, the sound of creation and renewal.

One last blast, outside, inside, and then the whispers and the drumming of dead feet dissolved into the good hiss.

The portrait under the glass began to change. Dagger fell. Blood disappeared. Rope and signs erased themselves.

But the lips still moved for a moment or two, and the wink of green from Agathon’s mark didn’t go out. The devil was still here, trapped.

Giles turned the picture to the wall, and, still saying his incantation, he sealed the crack in the second pane of glass. Then he blew out the candle he still held, and pushed his sore self back to standing.

"Anya?" he said.

The double doors came open – Gerald Wilton, however, with a hunting rifle in his hand. "Is it over?" he began, and then blinked. "Bloody hell, this is an awful mess."

"Yes. This particular portrait harbours a dangerous spirit, which was moments from escaping completely. I’ll give you the name of an expert in disposal of such artefacts, but now, _where is my wife_?"

"Here, Giles!" Constance Wright called. "She’s not in a fit state to move at the moment, however..."

He was there in three steps. On the hall carpet Anya was curled into herself, head buried in her knees, her whole body shivering. He could hear her crying now, soft little pain-sounds rising and falling like water lapping against stone. "Darling, no, it’s all right now," he said, and sat down to take her into his arms again.

She didn’t seem to know him, however. Just shivered, and cried without words, and curled in on herself even tighter. His throat closed with the tears he wouldn’t allow himself to shed.

"I _think_ ," Constance Wright said, "It’s likely just a bit of bad magic lingering in her system. Touched by a devil, you know, _not_ a particularly nice thing. If only I had the right herbs with me, I’d fix her right up. She needs some tea." He vaguely registered her dropping her crystal into her handbag, then snapping it shut.

Christine Wilton, hovering somewhere nearby, said something about ringing the I & A number and having backup on the way, but he could barely hear her. He could think of nothing but his Anya in his arms, so tired and in such terrible pain, and his own refrain of my fault my fault my fault. This one couldn’t be blamed on any outside evil.

He was weary, too. He wasn’t quite sure how he’d drive back to town. He didn’t want to let go of her, he needed to make sure she was all right... With a shaking hand he pushed back her hair, touched her cheek. "Darling, can you walk?"

"I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, love you, let me go so I don’t hurt you," she murmured, just as faded as before, no, more. Her skin was very cold.

He knew that Constance Wright had the truth of it; Anya needed a healing brew and sleep. She must have been touched before they’d even made the circle – bloody Agathon went for the strongest source of light in the room. And, Giles thought with a horrible twist in his gut, Agathon also went for her because she was even more tired than he was. What the fuck had he missed these past few months?

"Really, Rupert. Must you and Mrs Giles destroy my neighbours’ library in the course of your good works? Careless, that’s what I call it," came from somewhere down the hall. Giles looked up to see Jools and Elinor standing there. Jools shrugged. "Your little helper Wells rang, said you needed someone to chauffeur you two back to your humble abode. Beneath my dignity, but what can one do...."

Elinor said, "Do be quiet, Julian," and came to Giles’ side. She touched his shoulder lightly. "Shall we go?"

He couldn’t say anything, couldn’t smile, couldn’t even feel properly grateful. That refrain of blame was too loud. But he nodded his thanks, and with Jools’ help, he managed to arrange his Anya in his arms and get to his feet. Elinor carrying the ghost-hunting kit and Anya’s handbag, Jools with a casually supportive hand to Giles’ back, they went down the curved staircase, through the now silent entryway, and out the oak doors. The sound of Constance Wright whinnying explanations fell into the silence and was lost.

Twilight was falling now – the earlier disappearance of sunlight in the library no doubt down to Agathon’s magic– but the evening was frost-touched, and the oaks still hissed in the wind off the water. _Your fault, Giles, your fault._

Tucked up in the backseat of the Saab, Giles held Anya in his arms the whole way back to London. In the rearview mirror shone Elinor’s headlights, following them, and Jools sang as he drove – bits and pieces of Mott the Hoople and Mozart, Wagner and the Who. Despite light and song and friendship, however, what Giles kept hearing was that hissing refrain, mingled with Anya’s shudder-soft breaths. She cried without tears now. She’d gone dry.

And he couldn’t seem to keep her warm enough, safe enough. His fault. His fault. His fault.

When Jools pulled up in front of the Islington house, half the bloody lights seemed to be on, and the front door stood open. Dawn almost flew down the gravelled path – he could hear her even through the closed window, "Are you guys okay? What do I need to prep?"

Giles held Anya closer and whispered, "Home now. We’ll take care of you, darling."

"I’m sorry, my fault, I’m sorry...." Her whisper in return sounded so lost that his throat closed up again.

Then the car door opened, letting in the cold, and Jools looked in. "Come on, Rupert," he said. "Give her here. I can’t imagine you can even stagger to the door, much less anywhere else."

"No," Giles said. But he accepted Jools’ hand under his elbow, took what help he needed to get out of the car with her. To Dawn, "Andrew here?"

"Yes." She was walking backward, almost as if clearing the path. "He called me at home, and we picked up David from Tariq’s, and now Andrew’s on the phone with Margaret, ready to make whatever tisane you need. What do I tell them?"

"It was devil-touch. Lesser devil. Dark," Giles managed. Hard to breathe – not that Anya was too heavy, but that he was so tired.

Dawn’s eyes widened. Without another word she turned and ran into the house, disappearing into the flickering light from the tree of wish-candles. Clearing the path, he thought foolishly again.

Once inside, Giles stopped for a second at the foot of the stairs, and put his mouth to her hair again, gathering strength even as he shared it. The light didn’t quite reach all the way up –

"Come _on_ , Dad," David said from above, and the hall light clicked on, too bright.

"Yes, old man, come on," Jools added, then all but lifted Giles onto the first step.

Anya had stopped crying, gone silent, with her face turned into his shoulder. He could make it from here.

Once he’d laid her down on their bed, taken off her shoes, and brushed a kiss across her closed, salt-stained eyes, he straightened again. What next....

"Here, Dad," David said quietly from the doorway, a small solemn figure. Not so small any more, really. Nine years old, and growing so fast.

With one more look at Anya – did she seem easier, now she was home? – Giles went out in the hall and caught his son in a one-armed hug. "She’ll be just fine, David, don’t you worry," he said in almost a normal voice.

"‘Course she will," David said, and "Of course she will," said Andrew and Dawn together from somewhere near. Giles blinked, and they were there, Andrew carrying a steaming mug. Giles could smell the good magic from here. Wait, Dawn had something too –

She said in a voice oddly like Anya’s at her most managing, "Okay, you guys, you go in, give us a sec out here." Then, when Andrew had piloted David into the master bedroom and half-closed the door, she said, "Here. This tea is for you, because you’re all exhausted and doing that...thing."

He took a sip – hot, too sugary, just what he needed – before saying, "Anya needs...hang on, what thing?"

She rubbed his arm for a second as she searched for words. Then: "You know, sometimes I forget you’re not really Buffy’s and my dad, because you and Buffy are _so_ alike. In bad times you both get this ‘all my fault’ vibe going, which is first of all totally wrong, and secondly makes you so very self-absorbed and weird, and – Just don’t do that tonight, okay?"

He took another sip. Hot, too sugary, now with an additional edge of salt – tears or hysteria, he didn’t know. He didn’t know when Dawn had got so bloody wise, when David had grown so, when everything had almost slipped away.

Despite his fucking mistakes, he was so lucky. It terrified him.

But he said only, "Thank you, my dear. I promise I won’t do that tonight," and he let her steer him in to where Anya waited for him.

................................................................

Anya woke out of bad dreams to pain and light. Lots and lots of light, even through closed eyes.

She cautiously opened one – she was home, in her bedroom. On her bed, or technically, under the covers. Rupert lay next to her, warm and solid and real, although not touching her.

Flames danced from either side of her and from the dresser across the room. Every candle but two had been lit.

She was warm now after too long cold, although she also felt as if she’d been beaten by several large sticks wielded by especially angry dwarves. She’d known a few of those in her day.

One dry-throat swallow, however, and the bad dream came rushing back, except it wasn’t a dream. The devil was telling her true things, telling her how wrong she was, how bad, and it hurt so that even when the devil was gone, the voice remained. _My fault, my fault, my fault_ , it said to her, a rhythm as strong and dependable as Rupert’s heartbeat, she heard it even now –

"Darling?" His voice was husky and tired, and she felt a fresh blow of guilt. It hurt much worse like the ones given by bad magic.

But then he moved, leaned over her so that the light from the candles changed. He looked sleepy but... easier, not that her impossible husband was ever damn easy. And that smile of his strengthened the light.

She remembered more now: her failure at Greenoaks, the tears with which her body had tried to reject the demon’s poison, the way the poison had just touched the insecurities and damage which always lived under her surface. She remembered a car ride, sort of, with Rupert’s strong and dependable arms and heartbeat, and stupid Jools singing in a surprisingly nice voice. She distantly remembered drinking down a tisane, and then Rupert changing her clothes as she lost grasp of consciousness and bruised self.

"I am so damn stupid," she said now, and turned her head away so she didn’t see his expression change.

One big warm hand caught her chin and brought her back to him. "None of that, thank you," he said. "Unless you feel that psychic ability should have told you that the devil Agathon lurked in a bloody portrait we didn’t even know about til we got there."

Agathon, lesser devil, disappeared three hundred years ago from the court of Mephistophilis who also was a big fat evil poseur – "Oh, _Ag_ athon. _That_ guy. He was always a jerk."

Rupert’s face transformed from within, true ease now, as he smiled more deeply. "There we go. That’s my love." He bent his head – light-change, light closer now – and kissed her. He tasted of tea and salt, which was strange, and Rupert, which was wonderful.

She lay back and enjoyed the caresses of mouth and that very sneaky left hand of his, until a stray thought caused her to push him back. "Honey, what about you, are you all right? And where’s David?"

"I’m fine. Even had a bit of a nap." He stole another kiss before flopping back on his own pillow, grabbing her hand on the way. "And David’s downstairs. He’s had his supper, and Dawn and Andrew are watching him – but I rather thought he might come up and see you before bedtime, just so he’s reassured."

Guilt again, but not quite as strong, as drowning. "Okay. Okay, I’ll get up and show him I’m not that sick, except what the hell is Dawn doing here? I’m sure she had a date with Tom Quinn tonight."

"Please, Anya. Remember that I never ever want to think about that." He brought their linked hands to his mouth and then lightly nipped her knuckle. "And you’ve had everyone worried, darling. Dawn, and Jools and Elinor who rallied round, and then Andrew spoke to Margaret for your specific tisane – Constance Wright’s a member of Elizabeth Ponsonby’s coven, by the way, should have known. Anyway, he also settled the deal with the Wiltons and set Randolph on the case." This time, a tender kiss on her wrist, rather than a nip. "I do know that you were going to ask about that next."

Cautiously – because she really did hurt as if she’d been struck repeatedly – she turned onto her side. Rupert was gazing at the ceiling, a smile on his nicely thin lips, but she could see his deeper stress-lines in the candlelight. "No, I don’t even care if we don’t get paid this one time. I just... honey, I really am sorry."

"Stop it." He pulled her into him, which motion only hurt in a nice way, bringing her into warmth and reality and his very worn sweatshirt and another kiss. Then, warm hazel eyes so close, he said, "I’ve been blaming myself, you know. And, er, thinking about excommunication."

"Well, _you_ stop it. The blaming yourself, I mean. Also the excommunication bit, because it’s unpleasant. But the blame – honey, you haven’t done anything wrong. Not one thing."

His finger traced her mouth, a callused caress, before he said, "It’s hard for me to accept that, Anya, because I hadn’t really noticed how tired you’ve been, not until it was too late. That’s why the magic could get in. Because I haven’t taken proper care of you."

She bit at him, but as lightly as he’d nipped at her. "No, you’re great. The very best husband and partner. I just... I’ve just been really tired, trying to juggle things. My–"

"If you say ‘fault,’" he interrupted, "I’m going to do something fucking terrible to you."

"Like what?"

"I don’t know, but you won’t like it." His bare foot curved around hers, warm and tickly.

She smiled at him, although she still felt a little weak. "I do like that, though. It’s just... I don’t like screwing up. I hate failing you, honey."

"But you didn’t, darling. So is this fear really about the past?" he said quietly.

The question hung in the breathing silence of their bedroom, dissolving in the gold and flicker and warmth.

He always did this to her – always opened her up to thoughts she might not have had, bad memories, bad dreams. "Yes," she whispered. "Is your insistence on taking the blame part of that too?"

This was the time he ordinarily would look away– even after a decade, her man still didn’t like talking about those private things – but instead he held her gaze. "Yes." Then he pulled her even closer. "Dawn chided me for it, however, and so I stopped."

"Sure you have. You were just doing it again, honey."

"Do you doubt me?" One silvering eyebrow went up at that, and his hands crept very close to her most ticklish spots. When she prudently remained silent, the danger-eyebrow went down. He sighed. "No, you’re right. We’ve both got to keep working at it, love. What is it that Samuel Beckett said? ‘Try. Fail. Fail better.’"

She couldn’t help herself – "I don’t know this Beckett person, but come on, Rupert, what kind of crap attitude is _that_?"

He collapsed into silly whoops, one of those full-body giggle-fits that no one would have believed her distinguished husband capable of. But she knew, and she knew it was good for him, and so she wrapped him up and let him have his laugh.

Soon enough he stopped, though, and nuzzled her neck. "Shall I fix you something to eat, darling, bring it up for you?"

"Not hungry, but thank you." She played with that pretty silver hair for a second. "Why were you thinking about excommunication, before?"

"Oh, that. Just, er...we need the reverse of excommunication for our better choices, don’t you think? Not exile and death, but starting again –"

"Failing better?" she said dryly.

He grinned at her. "Exactly! A different ritual of bell, book, and candle."

"You have the strangest ideas," she said. "But hey, fine, you’re the family genius. What’s your plan?"

With a creak and a muttered curse he got off the bed and stretched. "Well, if you’re strong enough to receive visitors..."

"Of course I am."

"Right then." He went to the door, collecting on the way the bell which always rested on the bookshelf, the one they’d used to keep track of David not so long ago. He opened their bedroom door – a funny shift of wind, a flicker of candles, a rush of warmth – and then rang the bell loud and clear.

From downstairs came noise, happy kid-and-dog-and-family noise. "Be right there, Dad!" David shouted. The dogs were already thundering up the stairs.

"That’s one," Rupert said, then went to the two unlit candles. He had matches ready – "Make a good wish, darling."

She closed her eyes on bad-magic bruises, old history, waiting daggers, damage and insecurities. She thanked all Powers for him and their family, and wished for good things.

When she opened her eyes, both candles were alight, flames dancing higher than the others, and Rupert was smiling at her.

Then the dogs burst into the room. "Come on, Macallan, come on up." She patted the bed –

And Rupert said emphatically, "No. Down," and blocked the old collie’s leap. To Anya he said, "For fuck’s sake, you don’t need Macallan on the bed when you have _me_."

"Cranky old man," she said, which meant he smacked her leg when he crawled into bed on his side. Yay light punishment, even if that was all either of them could manage this particular night.

More thunder then, and their David galloped through the doorway, carrying a tube of chocolate biscuits. He wasn’t coughing at all. "Mum, you’re awake! See, Dad, told you she’d be fine." He hurled himself onto the foot of the bed, and then smiled at them both. He looked remarkably sticky. "Would you care for some chocolate? For classic healing and stuff?"

"Well. I might have just one," she said. It was only polite to encourage her boy, who was demonstrating very good manners, if poor washing skills.

"Thought you weren’t hungry," Rupert whispered, then evaded her halfhearted slap in favour of reaching for something on his nightstand.

Dawn and Andrew appeared at that moment, Andrew bearing a tray with a teapot and four mugs. "Healthful decaffeinated tea mixture for all!" he announced.

"And lots of honey," Dawn added. As they had done for years, even though neither one really lived here any more, they collected their usual chairs, pulled them up to the bed, then shared out the tea mugs. Anya could hear the dogs spinning around in their favourite spots over by the wardrobe

Spinning them all a circle of protection, Anya thought. They certainly could use it.

Boy, she still hurt.

Through a mouthful of tea and biscuit, however, she said, "We’ve had bell and candle, out of order. What’s left, Rupert?"

He kissed her ear before settling back against the pillows with a book in his hand. In a story-telling voice, he said, "Tonight, since we’re all rather tired, I thought it might be a good evening for a bedtime tale. Just a start."

Andrew and Dawn took their favourite listening positions, leaning against each other, mugs in hand. David toed off his filthy trainers, letting them clatter onto the floor, and shared round the biscuits one more time.

A sudden gust of wind rattled the windows above the bed, a draft of cold swirled through a weak spot in the seal, and Anya tensed for a second. But it was just night-wind, nothing to worry about. The candles were all still lit.

Rupert adjusted his glasses and began, " _By the Pricking of My Thumbs. Book One. ‘Mr and Mrs Beresford were sitting at the breakfast table. They were an ordinary couple....’_ "


End file.
